


The words you want to hear

by TanisVs



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drunkenness, Elements of the Different Witcher Medias, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fluff and Angst, Good Friend Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Romantic Soulmates, Soft Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Supportive Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), m rating for future chapters, mostly use of the netflix show, slightly canon divergences, the witcher headcanons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:07:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22738510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TanisVs/pseuds/TanisVs
Summary: “How will I know who my soulmate is, mother?” Jaskier had asked then.His mother had smiled at him, softly.“They will say those words to you, my dear. Your soulmark is what you most want someone to say to you. It represents how much your soulmate loves you and cares about you. That's why only you can see your soulmark until they say it, if anyone could see them, they could trick you into thinking it's your soulmate when it's not. They are words that must be born from the heart, do you understand?”Jaskier had wrinkled his little nose at that time.“Yes, mother,”“And remember,” she had said too. “Soulmates are persons meant to be together, yes, but you can’t or should force a soulbond. If someone will be meant to be with you, you have to build a strong relationship,”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 447





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So here we are! This is my little contribution to the lovely and beautiful Geraskier Week 2020 initiative. It will be my only contribution, a three-chapter fic with the first prompt (soulmates) topic as its core, I hope you like it ❤️❤️❤️
> 
> Thank you for reading, your kudos, and your comments! ❤️❤️❤️

_I don't care about your songs if you're dead_

Jaskier had read those words over and over throughout his childhood. The phrase was written with rough thick strokes, as if someone had carved the letters into his tender and delicate skin of his left forearm when he was a baby. And the ink. The words were made of dense, deep black ink, but in the light of the fire, candles or the sun itself, it sparkled with gold and grey if Jaskier turned or moved his wrist, like the scales of an iridescent fish. 

“Those are all markers of your soulmate, Julian, it represents them,” His mother had told him when Jaskier had described the appearance of his soulmark when he was five.

“How will I know who my soulmate is, mother?” Jaskier had asked then.

His mother had smiled at him, softly.

“They will say those words to you, my dear. Your soulmark is what you most want someone to say to you. It represents how much your soulmate loves you and cares about you. That's why only you can see your soulmark until they say it, if anyone could see them, they could trick you into thinking it's your soulmate when it's not. They are words that must be born from the heart, do you understand?”

Jaskier had wrinkled his little nose at that time.

“Yes, mother,”

“And remember,” she had said too. “Soulmates are persons meant to be together, yes, but you can’t or should force a soulbond. If someone will be meant to be with you, you have to build a strong relationship,”

“I… understand,”

“You’ll meet a lot of people in the future, my dear, don’t worry about that now,”

“Yes, mother,”

And Jaskier had not worried much about the subject until he turned fourteen and his father began to pressure him to study more seriously. He was the son, the only son, of a viscount, and they might not be of the highest nobility, but the family had status and his parents expected Jaskier to be even more literate than many of the sons and daughters of the high nobility. For that reason, Jaskier went to Oxenfurt, and though he was too young to attend higher education classes, Jaskier took the opportunity to start to take the first step to find his soulmate. 

He knew that if his soulmark spoke about songs, then he must study something that would lead him to write poetry and music. So he chose the faculty of Trouvereship and Poetry, to his father's disgust and his mother's resignation. He studied there for three years, arduously, tirelessly, determined to be the best. And yes, he was the best of his class, and of his promotion in all faculties. His teachers told him that he would write peerless poetry, that his music would be remembered forever. He believed them. Jaskier graduated with honors, and hit the road with seventeen, still too young, too innocent and kind.

Then he came face to face with reality.

Outdoors of Oxenfurt nobody liked his music o his poetry, and far away from his family and their commodities, Jaskier suffered hardship. He went hungry, cold and sometimes he had to make dubious deals to avoid dying. Many times he thought about returning to the nobleman's life, but then he would roll up his left shirt sleeve, would look at the words, those crude but precious black words that sparkled with amber and gold under the light, would take a deep breath and would keep going.

For whoever that had to be his soulmate.

Then he met Geralt of Rivia, the infamous Butcher of Blaviken whose stories he had heard since he was a child, and decided that the witcher was the best inspiration he would probably find in his life. So he followed Geralt everywhere, without realizing he had taken the second step to find his soulmate.

* * *

It had been half a year since they last saw each other. Jaskier had become more confident, but only because his new growing fame made him more secure and have more coins in his pouch. He had to thank Geralt, of course. People loved stories about witchers who, although they might seem like men of terrible behavior without morals and without principles, in the end had a heart, saved people and cared for the weak. Geralt had once told him that all that was stupid, but Jaskier had ignored him.

The truth didn’t lead to greatness.

“So, what if I invite you to ale in the next village tavern? You are going there, right? You could tell me about your latest adventures,”

“Hm,”

“Ah, yes, that one was very interesting and funny,”

Geralt was walking, guiding Roach by the bridle, with his heavy cloak waving softly behind him. Jaskier had one much more fancy and lighter that it didn’t hide his rapier and back-daggers at all, with his elven lute hanging from his shoulder. His pace was prideful, lordly.

“So, I heard of your affair with the _striga_ in Temeria,” Jaskier said, much more serious, less cheerful, and looked at Geralt with curious. 

He had grown a few inches in the time that they hadn't seen each other, but Geralt was still much taller than him. Geralt said anything, not even a grunt, and the road remained silent, a silence only broken by the happy chirping of the spring birds. Jaskier saw the grim gesture Geralt made at the mention of the _striga_ , and didn’t press. He walked beside him until they reached the town ahead.

Then, when the first villager noticed Geralt was a witcher, Jaskier went to the tavern alone.

It was the witcher’s life. He knew that.

“A _selkiemore_ , uh?” Jaskier mumbled while writing in his journal.

The tavern was full of a crowd of townsfolk listening to the man who had contracted Geralt that morning. Jaskier had his belly full of warm food and a decent ale, so he felt with enough energy to try to write, or at least think, about his next great song. _Toss a coin to your witcher_ it was good, very good, and people loved that song, but he didn’t want to become stagnant. He needed more successful songs. 

_Songs_. 

He slightly touched his left forearm, over the doublet sleeve. Then he remembered why he was there, in Cintra, and remembered the letter the chamberlain of Queen Calanthe had sent to him a month ago. It was a great honor to be the main bard in the court of such an important queen during her daughter's betrothal. But he knew that it was risky. Because in his obsessive spiral of finding his soulmate sooner rather than later, Jaskier had meddled in other people's marriages, even though they were not married to their true soulmates. And some of those people were nobles. And he knew that, at least, his beloved Countess of Stael was going to be in the ceremony. 

With her husband.

So he was fucked up.

A little.

Jaskier was thinking about that while he was writing the description of the monster according to the words of the fat farmer who had witnessed the fight between Geralt and the _selkiemore_ . He smiled when the man said that Geralt was dead, because he didn't believe for a moment that the witcher was going to die in such an absurd way. So he laughed when Geralt entered the tavern, covered in blood, guts, and shit as if nothing had happened. It wasn’t the first time. He made the crowd sing _Toss a coin to your witcher_ , knowing Geralt would groan, tired and disgusted. He collected a few coins. Geralt took a tankard of ale from a table and drank, spitting it half a second later. Jaskier snorted and leaned on the counter of the tavern.

Then he took a deep breath, and when Geralt approached him, he said:

“I need a favor,”

Geralt looked at him, silent, serious, and saw the apprehensive face Jaskier was making without realizing it. So the witcher tilted his head a little while viscous droplets of blood dripped to the floor.

“Tell me,” 

* * *

“ _Wow_ , what a night, right?”

Jaskier trotted behind Geralt, who was striding along the hallways as if the _Destiny_ itself were to appear in the palace to grab him by the neck and force him to claim his Child of Surprise before he or she was even born.

“This is your fault,” Geralt snarled, ablaze with anger.

“What? _My_ fault?” Jaskier protested, irritated and incredulous. “Excuse me, but I’m not the one who chose the Law of Surprise as payment here, you know,”

Geralt stopped dead suddenly, break-breathing, still furious, with a remarkable frown carved in his forehead. Jaskier sighed, facing him, his lute hanging from his shoulder like always, and didn’t flinch when Geralt glared at him with amber fire.

“If you hadn’t brought me here, I wouldn’t–” Geralt whispered, still wrathful.

Jaskier pressed his lips in a thin line, feeling a hot and unpleasant sensation in the pit of his stomach.

“Don’t you dare to blame me for what had you done, Geralt, you heard me?” Jaskier mumbled back, not with the same anger but with determination. Geralt huffed, looking away from him. “You could have asked for money, for lands, for anything other than that, but you preferred the Law of Surprise,”

“I know,” Geralt growled again.

Jaskier let out a deep breath, an exhausted and long sigh. They were in the middle of an empty and lonely corridor, with the rumor of the music at the party fluttering even there. Geralt sat on a nearby stone bench. Jaskier sat beside him, thinking.

“You knew it?” he asked after a minute in silence, with Geralt staring intensely at the floor.

The witcher shrugged a little before straightening and leaning on the wall with a grunt.

“Of course not,” he mumbled, calmer. “How could I have known it?”

He sounded resigned. Jaskier threw him a sympathetic glance and felt guilty anyway. He had been a little selfish because, of course, he could have defended himself against aggrieved husbands and wives, but… He wanted to go with Geralt to the party. Maybe it was really his fault. 

Maybe.

“Well, think about it,” he said. “If I hadn’t brought you with me, Calanthe would have killed that man, you saved a life tonight,"

"You would have done the same, I saw you fighting before,"

Jaskier parted lips, feeling his cheeks burning.

"Oh, yes, but I'm good at duels or like… two against one, even three against one, but an entire squad of soldiers? Thank you, but no," he saw Geralt smiling from the corner of his eye. Jaskier swallowed. "So as I was saying, you saved a life tonight, and saved Pavetta from soulrotting."

 _Soulrotting._ He could recall when his mother had told him about that concept. He was eight at that time, and one of his mother's maids had lost her husband, her soulmate, in battle. Jaskier remembered that day. The scream of agony had heard everywhere in the Lettenhove fortress. 

"How do you know they are soulmates and not two simple lovers?" Geralt asked, slowly, looking at Jaskier.

Jaskier shrugged.

"I don't know for sure, but…" he hesitated, feeling his soulmark heavier than before. He touched his left sleeve and dragged his fingers a little over it. "If my mother would be about to kill my soulmate I would scream like that too,"

"That was magic,"

"You know what I mean," Then Jaskier looked at Geralt and met those golden eyes. Something inside him tingled. Geralt looked away a second later, with a grimace. Jaskier swallowed slightly, still caressing his sleeve. "You wouldn't do it?"

"Do what?"

"Defend your soulmate against everyone and everything?" 

There was a silence, a big and dense silence that Jaskier didn't understand and couldn't explain. He felt it heavy and… bitter. Geralt sighed, _grunted_. Again he sounded tired and resigned.

"I suppose, I don't know," Geralt murmured.

Jaskier blinked, confused.

"What do you mean you don't know?" he asked.

Another silence, thicker than before. Jaskier frowned, knowing that he shouldn't push him, but…

"Geralt?"

… but surprisingly, Geralt answered without snarling at him, his voice full of exhaustion.

"Witchers don't have soulmates, Jaskier, "

The third silence wasn't heavier than the previous two. It was strangely soft, although uncomfortable and somehow… painful, agonizing. Jaskier didn't know and knew at the same time why he felt as if someone had punched him in the guts, ripping all the air from his lungs. 

"Oh," he mumbled, and wet his lips, suddenly sad. "How do you… How do you know? You don't…?"

He knew it was a dumb question. But Geralt, again, answered with much more patient than Jaskier would expect.

"I don't have a soulmark, no. Witchers don't have words on his arms," Then Geralt got up, without looking at him. "Come on, let's get out of here,"

He started to walk, not so fast than before, towards the end of the corridor. Jaskier watched him for a second, still feeling… sad, and got up too to follow him. He sighed, clenching his left hand in a fist. 

* * *

Jaskier turned the rapier in his hand, elegant, keeping his balance. He stabbed the air and backed away, then he cut an imaginary opponent, spinning on his heels, chaining block, feint and attack movements again and again. When he stopped he was out of breath, sweating. Then he lowered his rapier and sheathed it with a loud sigh. 

Geralt, sitting against a tree near the edge of the clearing, discovered he was holding his breath until then. He thought, _he noticed, he always noticed_ , how gorgeous, how stunning, was Jaskier when he trained, when he used his sword, when he was such concentrated and full of harsh and intense energy. It didn't have anything to do with the strength Jaskier detached when he sang or when he tricked someone with his silver-tongue. Geralt couldn't say what oh those attitudes he liked more.

"Geralt?" Jaskier's soft voice made him blink. He saw the bard smiling, cheeky. "See something you like?"

Geralt blinked again, watching him. Jaskier had his hair slightly wet, his forehead pearly with sweat, his cheeks rosy. He was on his too much tight trousers and on his shirt, only on his laced, cute and luxurious shirt that was mid-open, and Geralt could catch a glimpse of part of his pecs and, of course, his chest hair. He felt how his throat went dry in seconds, and looked away with a loud grunt.

Jaskier laughed and sat beside him, at his right against the tree. He had rolled up his sleeves so his left forearm brushed with Geralt's right arm. Geralt stared at the clearing, knowing that in that blank skin was a soulmark, the words that Jaskier wanted the most to hear from someone. 

_Someone_.

A claw gripped and tightened his heart and, somehow, his right forearm burned with an old and long lost memory.

* * *

Jaskier mumbled a curse, crossing out the last word he had written. Tiny drops of ink fell to the sheet, mottling the parchment of his not-yet-finished new song with a myriad of little black stars. He thought in silence with the feather under his chin. He lasted three seconds. Then he sighed and left the journal on the table, tired, upset. 

The tavern was empty except for the owner, Geralt and himself. It was early anyway, and neither of them expected to see anybody until noon.

The silence was weird. 

"What's wrong?" 

Jaskier looked up. Across the table, Geralt was watching him, with that frown that Jaskier knew meant the witcher was a little worried.

"Nothing," he mumbled, grabbing Geralt's tankard and taking a sip. When he saw Geralt arching an eyebrow, he groaned. "Nothing, really, don't worry," 

He took another sip, and that allowed the witcher to snatch the journal Jaskier had left on the table. He opened it on the last page. He made a grimace, confused at first, curious at second. Jaskier let out a new tired sigh and take a third sip of ale.

"I know," he said, sarcastically. "It's horrible, a complete disaster,"

"It's not," Geralt replied, absent.

"Geralt, I don't doubt that with age comes knowledge but I know you don't have any idea of music or poetry, so don't try to cheer me up with empty flattering,"

Geralt turned a page, ignoring him. The journal was full of lyrics, old and new, and sheet music, both finished and incomplete. Or at least that was what it looked like, Geralt wasn't sure. Jaskier was right, he didn't have any idea about music. But what he liked wasn't the music notes or the attempts and tests for rhymes. 

No. 

It was his handwriting.

It was fluid, thin, delicate. Like the course of a quiet but sometimes playful river. Its stroke was slightly bowed to the right because Jaskier was right-handed. There were words crossed out everywhere. Geralt thought it was pretty.

And that it was... _familiar_.

 _Familiar_.

Suddenly he felt his inner right forearm itching, a not quite unpleasant sensation. Geralt rubbed that specific zone of his arm, above the sleeve of his shirt, and frowned, uncomfortable. Jaskier, locked in the ale tankard, didn't notice that. Geralt left the journal on the table with no words, and took a deep breath.

He knew where he had seen that type of handwriting before.

He knew very well.

* * *

"You can't come,"

"Don't be ridiculous, Geralt,"

"Oh, I am the one who is being ridiculous?"

Geralt secured the straps of his swords and checked out that he was wearing them tightly to his back. Beside him, Roach huffed a little uneasily, sniffing the air of tension between the witcher and the bard. Geralt searched in one of the mare's saddlebags and extracted a couple of bottles filled with a green and silver liquid. He put them in his pouch and turned around.

Jaskier was facing him, arms crossed, with a clearly indignant and annoyed frown. He had his rapier, his _silver rapier_ , hanging on the left side of his hip, his daggers, his also _silver daggers_ , on the right side. His lute was safe in their room, upstairs, inside the inn. Geralt thought Jaskier should be inside the inn too, safe, without wanting to go with him to do _his job_. Geralt huffed as Roach had done before, patted the mare on the neck and walked away past Jaskier, towards the location where the monster that he had to kill was supposed to be.

Jaskier followed him.

"You can't face an entire pack of _drowners_ alone,"

"Ah, you know how to do my job better than me, it's that so, _bard_?" Geralt hissed. "Should I tell you how to write music now?"

He didn't want to sound mean. He didn't want to be mean. He knew Jaskier was worried, he could smell his fear. But...

"No, but I can help you, you know I can help you. At least with that type of monster. I have silver, and I am fast, faster than most of the men, you always say that,"

He always said that. It was true. Jaskier was a great warrior, and Geralt would trust him with his life, with his eyes closed. But not with that, not with monsters. Not with something that could rip off his flesh in a blink and eat him while he was still alive. 

He didn't want that. 

He couldn't live with that.

They were in the middle of the street, rain splashing furiously as if the gods were angry. There was water running everywhere, pouring from everywhere. The perfect scenery for a bunch of creatures that lived in the sewers.

"Come on, Geralt," Jaskier grabbed him by the arm, trying to stop him. Geralt didn't flinch and pushed the bard off, grunting. Jaskier groaned too, frustrated, and trotted until he surpassed the witcher and got in his way.

" _Please_ , let me help you with this," Jaskier said. No, _implored_ , _begged_ , _pleaded_. Geralt caught the heavy and thick scent of fear, but it wasn't just fear. No. It was panic, pure and electric terror. Jaskier feared for him, but it wasn't the first time Geralt had to hunt monsters, leaving the bard behind. Geralt avoided Jaskier and he kept walking, faster. 

The rain raged and one lightning ignited the sky like a fierce and bright snake. Then, just then, Geralt felt again a hand grabbing his arm, and this time the witcher stopped.

The thunder rumbled violently and it was as if a dragon was roaring.

The clutch on his arm was strong. Geralt didn't look back, didn't look at Jaskier. He breathed in, deep, and sensed the fear more intense than before. Another lightning. Another thunder. Geralt tried to let go, but Jaskier tightened his hold. Geralt felt a growl being born in his chest. He could get rid of the grip easily, he was stronger, but he was also tired of those arguments. Jaskier should understand why he couldn't go with him. 

"Jaskier," he said, low, slowly. A warning.

"Geralt," Jaskier replied, arrogant, stubborn.

Geralt inhaled deeply for a third time, and noticed that fear was no longer the only smell there, under all the rain. But he couldn't recognize the new scent, not yet. It was bitter but also sweet. Geralt growled.

"You can't come, it's not negotiable,"

"Why?" More obstinacy. "It would not be the first time,"

" _Drowners_ aren't like bandits, or like a single monster I can make be focused on me," Geralt tightened his teeth, closed his eyes for a second, and then opened it still without facing Jaskier. "You could die," 

There was a two seconds silence, only broken by the violent storm. 

"So are you," Jaskier replied, and his voice was softer than before, weaker.

"It's my job, not yours"

 _And I don't want you to die_ , he should say, _I want you to be safe here, where I could return to you later_ , he should say. He thought about the drowners, he thought about their claws and fangs, their viscous, horrendous skin and faces. He knew it wasn't the monster's fault, really, but… 

"Well, If we are talking about jobs–"

"Jaskier," Geralt growled, again, getting angry, angrier. He still didn't look back, at him.

"No, come on! If we are talking about jobs I have one, you know?"

"Jaskier, " The growl grew up.

"Remember? That one in which I sing and people throw me money?" Geralt stepped forward, only two steps. "You remember it, right?"

"You're wasting my time,"

"Because I have been neglecting _my job_ only for _you_! Because you insist on not telling me anything of value for my songs, and–"

" _Jaskier_ , "

" _And_ ! I thought, well, I understand, he is not good explaining shit, he doesn't want to talk, so if I watch how he fights and hunts monsters I suppose I can manage with that, but no! Also no! How do you want me to do _my job_ , _witcher_?"

And then, the third lightning sparked in the sky, enormous, violent. And something in Jaskier voice made Geralt to burst. He faced the bard, finally, his amber eyes flaming with hurt fury. 

"Jaskier, _I don't care about your songs if you're_ **_dead_ **! Do you understand that or not?!"

The third thunder erupted immediately after and devoured the other sounds. It lasted at least four long seconds. Four long seconds in which they looked at each other under the dark rain with no words. Then, slowly, Jaskier loosened his grip. And Geralt noticed his expression. Jaskier looked down, frowning a little, his hands trembling, his lips pressed in a thin line. Geralt saw him swallowing, hard. A strong and powerful scent cracked around him.

But the bard said nothing.

So Geralt took that as an advantage and turned around to walk away. He didn't say anything either. He felt strangely tired, tensed. He didn't look back, he had a job to do.

* * *

It took him four days to clean the sewers from _drowners_. Geralt emerged to the surface covered in green-black blood, murky water, and shit, so he seemed like one of the monsters he had killed down there, in the guts of the city. It wasn't the first time, and it wasn't the first time he had to come back to the inn covered in dirt like that.

When Geralt arrived into the room he shared with Jaskier, he found him leaning on the windowsill, reading something. At the sound of someone appearing, the bard looked up and turned around. He arched his eyebrows in surprise.

"Geralt!"

And in relief.

Jaskier moved toward the witcher with two steps and hugged him tight, exhaling a heavy breath and resting his forehead on his chest. Geralt went stiff, not because Jaskier was hugging him but–

"Jaskier, you are going to get dirt," Geralt sighed.

Jaskier squeezed him a little before releasing him and looked at Geralt with his bright and pretty blue eyes.

"I was worried," he mumbled. 

He had mud in his forehead, in his right cheek, and in the front of his fancy doublet. But he didn't seem angry. Geralt breathed in and caught the pale scent of flowers, ink, and wood that followed Jaskier everywhere, alongside something soft and sweet under all his own dirt. He grunted, weakly.

"Sorry, it took me longer than I would think, "

"Right, _uh…_ "Jaskier hesitated, looking away, and headed to the door. "I will ask the innkeeper to prepare a bath for you,"

Geralt watched him go, knowing that their fight was not resolved. He sighed again, feeling exhausted, hungry. Then he glanced at the piece of parchment that was on the windowsill, forgotten, and he felt curiosity. It had been folded and unfolded many times, and it had a red wax seal that, when he examined it closely, he recognized it. 

It was the blazon of the Lettenhove. It was a letter. 

Geralt backed off and decided not to pry more. It was Jaskier's. And whether or not he wanted to tell him, it was none of his business.

He rubbed his right forearm unconsciously. That thought made him feel… more tired.

Gerald needed two rounds of hot water to get rid of all the shit he was covered with. With the third bath, he let himself get enough relaxed to lingering in the water doing nothing more than leaning against the edge and wall tub with his eyes closed. It was already night, so Jaskier had lit a few candles around the room. The bard hadn't talked much in that time except for two or three nervous jokes about the dirt water Geralt had been spraying everywhere when he was leaving his two previous baths.

Geralt knew Jaskier was ruminating something.

He didn't want to push him. 

But he also wanted… 

He opened his eyes, slowly, and saw that Jaskier was with his back turned to him. He counted five seconds, determined to talk about the discussion they had had four days ago, determined to be the one making the effort to fix things this time. He parted his lips, just about to say his name, to call him.

Then Jaskier turned around and faced Geralt, serious, but at the same time nervous. Geralt smelled something uncomfortable, something anxious and painful.

Something _sad_.

He shut his mouth.

Jaskier took a deep breath. He hadn't changed his clothing yet or cleaned his face. 

"Geralt, I…," he said, hesitating, licking his lips, avoiding his gaze. He exhaled, long, as if he didn't know how to say what he wanted to say. Then he bit his lower lip. Geralt stared at him, feeling on edge, vulnerable for the first time in a long time. "I want to ask you for something," Jaskier looked at Geralt, and Geralt nodded. 

Then Jaskier sighed one more long breath, biting his lips again, looking away, _again_ , and crossed his arms, almost hugging himself as if he needed someone holding him, as If he needed a shield. 

"I…"

The bard frowned a little more, and Geralt saw that frown trembling. Jaskier clicked his tongue and, this time, locked eyes with the witcher. Geralt felt the intensity, determination, and… grief.

 _Grief_.

He knew what Jaskier wanted to ask. He should have known in the first moment he had seen the letter with the Lettenhove emblem. He had no doubt.

"You want to hire me," Geralt said, low, soft, calm. "You want to make a contract,"

Jaskier parted his lips.

"Yes," he said.

And Geralt saw, _saw_ , how just then Jaskier looked and walked away, out of the room, squeezing, _clasping_ , his left forearm with tight and shaky fingers. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, fine, it took longer than I expected to write this chapter (I've been sick, and social life doesn't wait for you). I know it was going to be three chapters at first because I had a clear idea in my head and thought that was all I needed, but no! It turns out that it wasn't. 
> 
> I have divided what was going to be chapter two into two parts, and probably, if the same happens with chapter four, there will be a fifth (with a lot of emotional content, I promise).
> 
> So! I hope you like it and I leave you wanting more for the next one! Thanks for all the kudos and comments, you are all wonderful and I love you very much <3

Lettenhove Fortress was a square mass of grey stone, with thick walls and high towers, located at the top of a bare hill next to a mountain range covered with wild forest. A village surrounded the hill, with the houses scattered along its slopes. A fast bubbly river flowed and spurted from the mountains and surrounded the last houses of the town, forming a natural barrier against attackers. A wall, as huge as the walls of the fortress, surrounded the village on the side that the river did not protect.

Jaskier stopped his horse, a black stallion with white legs, as soon as he reached the end of the bridge that connected the two banks of the river. Geralt did the same. A barbican, guarded by two soldiers with the Lettenhove coat of arms, were watching the only passage to the village and the castle. The soldiers looked at them with suspicion and reticence, especially at Geralt. The witcher noticed that they frowned at the sight of the medallion. He said nothing, letting Jaskier step forward to them.

"A crown per person and per horse," the soldier stationed on the right side said, as soon as Jaskier's steed took a step.

Jaskier clicked his tongue.

"I am Julian Alfred Pankratz, son of the Viscount of Lettenhove, and I will not pay to enter in my own house, nor will pay my companion. Let us pass,"

The guards looked at each other before they looked back at Jaskier. The soldier on the right scoffed.

"If you were truly the son of the viscount, then you would know that you are the new viscount. Or you  _ should _ know,"

Geralt saw out of the corner of his eye how the soldier on the left was tensing up, ready to attack just in case... He could smell his distrust, even a little nervousness (because of him, not Jaskier) but he remained calm. He didn't need more trouble, not when people were willing to find problems out of nowhere.

“I know my father is dead,  _ soldier _ ,” Jaskier hissed, and he really sounded like a really pissed off nobleman. “Let us pass or you will face the consequences,”

The right guardsman frowned a little more, threw a quick glance at his companion, who shrugged with a huff, and then grunted. He extended a hand to Jaskier.

“Well, if you insist… Documentation,  _ please _ ,” 

Jaskier inhaled deeply (and Geralt knew he was tired of this shit already) and reached into his bag. He took out a small scroll of parchment which he offered to the guard. The soldier spread it without ceremony, and read it in silence. With every word he read his expression changed from weariness and mockery to surprise and panic. He looked up from the scroll, rolled it up quickly, and returned it to Jaskier. 

"My apologies my lord, please, come in,"

Jaskier huffed, taking the scroll and put it back in the bag. Then, without words or acknowledging the soldier's apology, he spurred the horse on and marched forward. Geralt sighed and followed him, knowing that the guards were looking at him much more boldly and curiously than before.

They entered the town.

The main street was full of holes and mud puddles. It connected the entrance of the bridge with the marketplace and the castle. They rode at a slow pace. Busy villagers were walking around, leading mules or carts with sacks or hay bales. Hens and gooses were fluttering or pecking everywhere, groups of children were running through the alleys or playing with rag balls. Somewhere a pig shrieked. Geralt thought, somehow, that all of that reminded him of Blaviken. He looked at Jaskier, who was serious, glassy-eyed.

“So, will there be consequences?” he asked, casual.

Jaskier let out a grunt. He was becoming a very good Geralt imitator, groaning in response to everything, silent, moody, unwilling to explain anything. He had been like that for two weeks since Jaskier got the letter from his family and hired Geralt to kill a monster without any more details. Two weeks of tense, hard travel to Lettenhove. Geralt was almost starting to resent his own shortcomings.

“Of course not,” Jaskier replied. “I've been away for years, I understand I wasn't recognized,"

“Hm,”

Geralt was about to ask if he was okay, but he knew he wasn’t. When someone as cheerful and optimistic as Jaskier went grey and empty that way there was no point in ask if he was okay. How could he be? Geralt had realized during that time how much he hated seeing Jaskier like that. They had been traveling together for years, with some time lapses in which each one had gone on their own way but–

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier mumbled. He had his eyes fixed on the road. “I’m dragging you to all this mess,”

Geralt shook his head weakly.

“Well, no offense, but I've been worse,” he said, trying to liven things up. “At least I know you won't try to con me,”

“Of course not!” Jaskier exclaimed, clearly repulsed by that idea. Then he added with a whisper: “How could I do that…”

Geralt curved a tiny smile without looking at him. Jaskier was probably going to be the best contractor in his entire career, both past and future, as a witcher. He wouldn't try to trick him, bargain with him, or hinder him. He would accept whatever conditions Geralt asked, he would accept any price. He was sure of it. So thinking about what price to ask him was difficult. Jaskier was his friend, not just any client. And he had just lost his father.

And that meant a lot of things.

“I haven't even been able to tell you what monster you have to kill,” Jaskier kept saying, a little bit bitter. 

“That’s not your fault, your letter doesn’t say it,”

“But you could have prepared yourself during these weeks, I don't like to think it's been time wasted,”

“Trust me, it hasn’t been,”

Maybe Geralt didn’t know what kind of beast he had to hunt for Jaskier, but he remembered each and every day of those two weeks when he had had to stop Jaskier from turning into another beast, a wounded one who was trying to ease the pain of mourning with alcohol and tavern fights. For him, it hadn’t been time wasted.

Never would be.

They went through the second barbican, the direct access to the castle, without stopping or being stopped. Groups of residents were entering and leaving the fortress, in their daily hustle and bustle unaware of the tragedy that had shaken the viscount's family. As if that wouldn't alter their lives in any way. Once they were in the bailey, Jaskier looked up at the castle keep, where the flag with the Lettenhove emblem was waving. 

“Young lord?”

Jaskier blinked and looked down. A man in his early fifties had approached them. He had short, brown hair with gray streaks, a square jaw covered with a slight beard, hard, tough features, tanned skin, dark and wise eyes. He was wearing,  _ still _ , the uniform of the captain of the guard. Jaskier got off his horse, a stable boy grabbed the reins as soon as he did, and took a deep breath.

“Captain Fryderyk,” he said, tense. 

He saw out of the corner of his eye how Geralt also dismounted Roach and gave, reluctantly,  _ very reluctantly _ , her reins to another stable boy. Around them, servants, locals, and even some of the castle guards were watching their arrival with interest. They looked at Geralt, perhaps, with a little fear. But no one seemed really disturbed.

“I am sorry for your loss, my lord,” His voice was severe but soft, like when Jaskier was still a little child running along the top of the walls, playing at escaping from the servants and guards who were trying to catch him and Fryderyk, a young aspiring castle warden, was the only capable of doing it. 

Jaskier nodded.

“Thank you,”

“I see that you have brought a witcher,”

“Yes,” Jaskier looked at Geralt, who was standing at his side now. “He is–”

“I know who he is,” The captain interrupted, and his eyes glanced at the medallion for a second. “The White Wolf, I have heard the songs,” Then he smiled, barely, but smiled, and turned around. “Jarek!” he called with a strong voice, an order. 

A guard in his thirties who had followed his captain near Jaskier and Geralt stepped forward.

“Sir!”

“Find Lucjan. Have him show the witcher his new quarters,”

“Yes, sir!”

“As a guest of honor,”

“Yes, sir!”

The soldier, Jarek, threw an amazed fearless glance at Geralt. Geralt looked back at him, unamused. Jaskier snorted, smiling. Then Geralt looked at Jaskier. His inner right forearm itched. Jaskier gave him a small sad smile and followed captain Fryderyk to the keep. Geralt saw him disappear behind the main gates and breathed a long sigh. Jarek cleared his throat.

“Shall we?”

Geralt grunted and follow his own guard. They went to another gate, located on the right side of the keep, and entered as if Geralt had been living there all his life.

“So, are they true?” Jarek asked.

“What?” Geralt retorted with another question.

They walked through a long corridor. 

“The things the songs tell about you,”

Geralt sighed, resigned. 

"Some of them,"

They entered a kitchen, a large central kitchen, where the cooks, kitchen helpers, and other servants were busy finishing dinner. Jarek looked around and then raised his voice to make himself heard:

“Eh, does anyone know where is Lucjan?!”

A maid, a young girl who was peeling potatoes in a corner, exclaimed in response:

“In the great hall!”

“Thanks, Myra!”

The guard nodded to Geralt and continued to walk across the room to another corridor. The witcher thought about how strangely peaceful life seemed a castle life and how chaotic it really was. He grunted again, feeling tired.

“Jarek,” he called.

“Yes?”

“What do you know about the viscount's death?”

Jarek didn't answer right away. A slightly heavy silence, only broken by the noise of the fortress vitality, hovered around them. Until the soldier spoke, much less cheerfully than before.

“Not much, I'm afraid, mostly rumors,” he exhaled a deep sigh, and then, slowly, stopped his walk in the middle of the corridor. “It was almost three months ago, the viscount went to the nearby mountains to hunt with some of his knights, the usual,”

Geralt approached him until they were face to face. He smelled sadness, impotence, confusion. Jarek's expression was grey, like Jaskier’s.

“And?” he encouraged, softly. 

The guard bit his lips, frowning, trying to…

“It usually takes them a week to go there, hunt what they want and return to the castle. So a week went by, and when they didn't come back the captain wanted to go look for them, just in case something had happened,” Jarek frowned a little more. “But the viscountess told him to not worry too much because sometimes they took a little longer to return,

Geralt made a slight grimace and clicked his tongue. He was about to ask him how long it was before someone came looking for them when Jarek spoke again.

“And then, on the tenth day, our lady fell to her knees with a piercing cry and spat out black blood,”

Geralt arched his eyebrows.

“ _ Soulrotting _ ?”

He saw Jarek holding his breath at the mention of that word. Then the guard nodded silently. Geralt grunted. 

“That was how we knew the viscount was dead. The captain commanded some of his men to the mountains and searched for survivors and the body of our Lord, but they found nothing except the half-devoured corpse of one of the knights,”

“I see,” Geralt murmured. 

That didn't tell him much, but it was something. It must be the same that the letter said. He still needed to find out how the monster, if it was a monster at all and not a wolf pack or bears, had devoured that man. He needed to go there, to those mountains, to look for anything that might tell him what he was up against.

He knew that Jaskier would want to go with him.

And they still hadn't talked about their previous fight on that subject.

Jarek said no more and continued to lead Geralt to the great hall where they found Lucjan, who turned out to be the castle's butler, a slim and graceful man with black hair and blue eyes. He placed Geralt in a room on the east side of the tower, which served as a room for distinguished guests because visitors usually slept in the great hall with the servants, the knights, and the dogs. Lucjan remarked casually that the rooms of the viscountess and the soon-to-be new viscount were on the west side. 

Geralt thanked him and Jarek for their help and was left alone. He left his bag and his swords on a table against the wall, and sat up in the bed heavily, thinking, calculating. Three months was a long time, and whatever had attacked Jaskier's father and his men might not be in the same area of the forest anymore. The trail must have been erased and more than faded. If no one else had been attacked over there, or near Lettenhove itself, it would be difficult to find the monster. The hunt could last a long time, even if he was lucky.

But at least he will have food, drink and a roof over his head, and possibly all the time he needed to find and kill that monster. 

He sighed and started to take off his armor, leaving only his shirt, pants, and boots. He took off his gloves too, tossing them on the table, and lay down on the bed. He closed his eyes, just for a moment, feeling again that little tingle on his forearm. He groaned, weakly, and opened his eyes. 

Then, hesitant, rolled up his right sleeve.

* * *

"Are you sure you don't want to rest before seeing her?"

"No, no… I'm okay, I need it… I need to see her,"

It had been years since Jaskier had walked those halls, those stone rooms. He had almost forgotten how trapped he had felt in there, the weight of the title hanging over his head. Now that his father had died, that weight had fallen and was crushing him everywhere. It was only a matter of time, once the matter of the monster that had killed the viscount had been resolved before someone would bring up the subject of the succession.

Jaskier didn't want to think about that.

Not yet.

"I know she must be having a hard time, but what about you?" Jaskier asked Fryderyk as they headed for the viscountess' rooms.

The captain had grimaced and sipped his nose a little before taking the back of his hand to it, wiping himself... When he put his hand down, Jaskier saw black blood on the glove.

"I can manage, we have called a sorceress, she has given us a potion to ease the effects of the rot," he explained in a rough voice. "Anyway, in your mother's case it's worse, she's been in bed since your father's death,"

“Right…”

“Don’t worry about me, young lord, I’ll survive,” Fryderyk gave Jaskier a sad smile. “He and I weren't completely bounded, only I have had his words,”

“But now you'll never know if he could ever have had yours,” Jaskier whispered, also sad, feeling his left forearm itching. He rubbed it, swallowing. “How is it? Being a one-side soulmate?”

The captain sighed. His voice was distant and small as he talked.

"It's hard, very hard, and lonely. You wait and hope that someday the other person will show you his soulmark, and then you have to see how they find their soulmate, but it's not you, it's someone else. And you wonder if there's something wrong, if you've done something wrong, if you're... broken, "

Jaskier blinked, feeling his eyes getting wet and his face burning.

“You are not broken, Fryderyk,” he murmured.

“I know I’m not, but sometimes you wonder,”

There was an uncomfortable, dense silence. Jaskier bit his lips. In the distance a dog barked, followed by other dogs that must have run in the ward. The beat of the forge, the stables, the march of the guards, the bells, all were sounds of his childhood. Fryderyk looked at him but said nothing.

When they reached the viscountess' quarters, Fryderyk stopped and stepped aside. Before Jaskier entered, he smiled weakly at him.

"Welcome home, Julian,"

Jaskier felt his fingers tremble. He managed to smile back.

"Thank you, Ryk," he whispered.

Fryderyk squeezed his shoulder. Then Jaskier knocked on the door. On the other side a serene, melodic, female voice indicated that he could come in. He turned the knob. He entered. The room was big, warm and cozy, just as he remembered it. The walls were covered with tapestries illustrating feats of the past, the floor was covered with a thick carpet of bear fur. The fireplace at one end of the room crackled brightly with orange sparks. The desk where his mother wrote her letters was... immaculate. And on the other side of the chimney was the bed, the big double bed where his parents had fathered him, and where now his mother lay, sick with  _ soulrotting _ . The viscountess wasn't alone. An elderly maid was standing by the bed and wiping away the sweat and blood of her Lady, who was mumbling unrelated and delirious words.

And just a little further on, next to a little table with bottles filled with liquids of various colors, there was a young woman, beautiful, elegant, with long, wavy, black hair, who was wearing a white dress that shone with tiny stars as she moved. When Jaskier closed the door and the woman turned around, he could see that her eyes were violet. The woman gave him a polite smile, while she was mixing two of the liquids on a bowl.

"You must be Julian," she said, calm. 

"And you must be the sorceress," Jaskier mumbled, approaching her and the bed.

"Yennefer,"

Jaskier watched as she took a clean cloth and soak it with the solution she had mixed in the bowl, then folded it and placed it on the viscountess's forehead. Instantly, the woman stopped shivering and babbling and fell into a quiet state of sleep. She also stopped sweating, and bleeding from her nose. Yennefer sighed. The maid straightened, caressing her Lady's hair, gently. Jaskier swallowed, pressing his lips in a thin line.

"She will sleep painlessly all night, and all the next morning until noon. I will retire until then, I need to keep trying more formulas."

Yennefer began to collect their jars, putting them in a wooden box carved with geometric patterns. Jaskier watched his mother in silence, while the maid cupped the pillows and placed the blankets better. She was older than he remembered, of course, her brown hair had a much more grey than the last time he had seen her, she had more wrinkles everywhere. But she looked older, really older, because of the sickness, he knew that.

"My young lord?" Yennefer called. Jaskier looked at her. She had her box, closed, in her arms. The bowl was still on the table. "Would you accompany me?"

Jaskier threw a glance at his mother one more time, feeling his own heartbeat heavy in his chest, and then left the room followed by the sorceress. Outside, Fryderyk was gone. Yennefer began to walk down the hall, heading east side of the keep. He would have liked to be able to talk to his mother, let her know he was there, but...

"Whatever they promise you," Jaskier said a moment after. "If you can save her life, I'll pay whatever you want,"

Yennefer curved a sad and tiny smile.

"What I want, my lord, it's something you can't pay with money, but I appreciate the offer," she replied, then he let out a deep breath. "I'm not entirely sure if I can…The corruption is advanced but I will keep her alive as long as I can,"

Jaskier bit his lower lip.

"How much time?" he asked, in a mutter.

Yennefer made a grimace, a disappointed, perhaps with herself, one.

"I don't know," she said, also with a whisper. "I'm sorry,"

Jaskier slightly shook his head.

"It's alright, it's not your fault," he asserted. "But thank you,"

Yennefer nodded. They walked then in silence until they reach the east side of the keep and the guest's quarters. Jaskier knew that one of those rooms has to be Geralt's but he felt suddenly too tired to talk to him about anything right now. He thought about his soulmark, his words. He had been thinking about it for those two weeks, when he had been sober enough to think. He knew he should tell him, but at the same time he knew the witcher, always ready to renegade  _ Destiny  _ and everything that binds him to other people, would not give it a second thought at best. At worst, he would walk away from Jaskier, to protect himself from feelings and emotions, or to protect Jaskier, or whatever Geralt might think of as an excuse. And Jaskier was also always willing to think the worst about his relationship with Geralt. Geralt, who had cost him gods and help to trust him, who had taken eons to pronounce the word  _ friend _ even when he had treated him as one for years.

“You should tell him,” Yennefer said then, making the bard lose his train of thoughts.

“What?” Jaskier looked at her, confused.

“About your soulmark, you should tell him,” 

Jaskier blinked.

“How do you know?”

Yennefer huffed a smirk, a proud smirk.

“Your thoughts are strong, and I can read them easily without having to look at you. I've seen him too, just like you do. He is very handsome," she said, playful.

Jaskier cleared his throat, feeling his cheeks burning and his hands sweating.

“He's not only handsome, he's…” he hesitated, not knowing what words use. He thought about the banquet at Cintra, about Geralt telling him that he had no words for anyone, about the time when Geralt had said that he didn’t need anyone and didn’t want to be needed. He frowned, sighing. “It’s complicated,”

“Ah, I see, a witcher,”

“Yes,”

“So you are a one-side soulmate,”

Jaskier wet his lips and felt, again, tired. A weak beat had started to hammering his temples and forehead. One-side soulmate. He remembered Fryderyk and his eternal longing for the viscount, present throughout all his childhood. Even as a child he had realized that the patience and kindness his father had always had with the captain of the guard was not common. 

“It seems that way,” he said, in a hollow tone of voice.

Yennefer threw him a glance but said nothing in return. Shortly thereafter, they arrived at her room. Yennefer opened the door but looked at Jaskier before entering. She parted her lips but paused for a second as if she was going to say something that she thought better not to. Instead, she said:

"I'll see you tonight at dinner, your people will be pleased to see you in the great hall," Jaskier nodded, and she added: “Maybe you should take a bath and rest until then, it'll help you clear your head."

Then Yennefer came into the room and closed the door. A soft click indicated that she had used the lock. Jaskier stared at the door, abstracted, and rubbed his left forearm without realizing it. He sighed, weakly, and turned on his heels, heading for his quarters, thinking again.

* * *

The keep had a floor, in the basement, divided between the dungeons and a kind of therma that his great-grandfather had ordered to be built during his mandate. Jaskier had played there many times with other kids, children of guards and servants, when the adults were too busy and they had nothing else to do until dinner time. Well, in Jaskier's case he did have things to do, but he preferred to run away to play rather than be bored to death listening to his tutors talk about geography or history that didn't interest him at all.

The therma was a large rectangular room with a big oval pool carved into the stone, which could easily accommodate twenty people at a time. Three smaller cavities, for at least four people, were also carved around it. An intricate system of pipes diverted water from the aquifers that the river fed to a tank, which a team of servants was responsible for keeping warm. They filled the pool and the smaller bathtubs when a lever for each one was operated. 

Jaskier ordered the servants to fill one of the small tubs, and started to unpack the clothes he was to wear later, when he had got rid of all the dirt and sweat from the roads. The stable boys had carried his bags and luggage up to his room, and though his current clothes were in good condition, Jaskier could not help but look through his old closet and chest. Everything was the same as when he had left years ago, with the exception that his mother had probably had ordered his clothes to be aired from time to time so that the moths would not prey on them. 

When the bathtub was full and the steam covered the surface of the water and its surroundings like a cloud, Jaskier undressed, gave the dirty clothes to one of the servants and went into the water. Another servant left sponges and soapy salts, plus towels nearby for him to dry off later. Jaskier felt his muscles slowly warm and relax, and puffed a pleasant breath. He took one of the jars containing the salts and poured a handful of it into the water. Soon, white and blue bubbles appeared, and two centimeters of soap mantled the surface of the tub completely. He slid down to rest his head on the edge. The tub wasn't very deep, but it allowed him to float a bit without having to sit down. Jaskier closed his eyes and just let himself go. 

He didn't know how long he was like that, gone, not moving, locked in a bubble of silence without wanting to go out into the outside world again. Thinking of the sorceress' words, her dying mother, Fryderyk's black blood, and Geralt. Geralt above all, and the words written on his arm, said with evident anger but which by  _ Destiny  _ meant the maximum expression of affection and love that Geralt felt for him.

_ I don't care about your songs if you're dead _

He hadn't had much time to think about the phrase, not really. After Geralt had left him behind in the storm to kill the monsters that infested the sewers of that city, he had returned to the inn in shock, almost without realizing it. That night he hadn't slept, worrying about how he could tell Geralt that he was his soulmate, even though Geralt didn't have a mark on him with Jaskier's words. Before Cintra, Jaskier had dreamed of that possibility, had thought about situations, had conceived scenes in his head, in which Geralt said his words, Jaskier said Geralt's, and they both accepted their mutual feelings and were happy in their own way. Before Cintra, when Jaskier was younger and more naive, he would not have hesitated to tell Geralt about the mark. 

But after... 

After having seen him run away from  _ Destiny  _ again and again, after having heard him say that  _ Destiny  _ was only an excuse for those who believed in it wanted to feel better with his bad actions, after having found out that witchers did not have anyone's words…

After all of that, Jaskier wasn’t sure of what he should do. And he didn't want to deal with it either.

Not yet.

The sound of the door and heavy footsteps of leather boots made him open his eyes and stand up a little. Through the increasingly dissolved cloud of steam, Jaskier saw Geralt walking toward his bathtub with a bundle of clothes under his arm. The witcher seemed to have an expression on his face halfway between exhaustion and surrender.

"That butler of yours told me you were here," he grunted, dropping his clothes not far from the tub. 

Jaskier knew, knowing Lucjan, that the man had probably smelled Geralt two miles away and pushed him into the therma with a broom so he would not have to touch him. The bard snorted and shrank against the wall of the bathtub even though it was big enough for three people as big and wide as Geralt to get into. He kept his arms, especially his left arm, underwater, hidden under the layer of soap and bubbles, aware that... that now Geralt could see his mark if he wasn't careful. Jaskier blinked, not quite sure if he was ready to tell him, right then and there, before Geralt could catch him and demand an explanation, in case Geralt cared enough about the subject to demand an explanation, of course.

He held his breath, looking up from the water and the foam. And saw Geralt taking off his shirt, still grunting about Lucjan, and leave it lying next to the pile of clean clothes. Jaskier blinked again, watching him, watching as his skin pearled with steam and sweat, and made his muscles, covered in scars, seemed to swell with the heat. Watching as the wolf medallion caught the light of the torches and twinkled between his pecs. 

Jaskier swallowed, dry, hard, and turned around, slowly, before he could see Geralt peeling off his pants. It wouldn't be the first time, but he always felt it as if it was that way. He rested his arms on the edge of the bathtub, and his chin on his arms, being terribly aware of the rubbing's sound the clothes were making as Geralt was taking them off. He heard a couple of soft taps, the boots being thrown on the floor, then the noise of the belt loops. The pants. The underwear. Jaskier closed his eyes. Then he heard,  _ felt _ , how Geralt was getting into the water, on the other side of where he was, with a grunt of pleasure.

His cock twitched. 

Jaskier swallowed again, trying to think of something far away from anything erotic so he couldn't get hard. But he failed. He remembered that one of his fantasies in his youth was fuck with Geralt in a bathtub. He saw himself riding the witcher, with his big and calloused hands gripping his hips, panting and moaning in his ear, against his collarbone, kissing and licking his neck, biting a nebula of hickeys, rough,  _ harsh _ .

He pressed his lips.

"Jaskier,"

His eyes snapped open but he didn't move. Jaskier felt something tightened his guts, his throat. He knew Geralt could smell the arousal in someone. He licked his lips, without facing him, his eyes on the wall, feeling tense, his left arm burning.

"Hm?" he hummed, softly.

He heard water sounds, maybe Geralt was shifting on his seat, maybe he was wetting himself, cupping soap with his hands and… He didn't know for sure, he didn't look. It was a large hesitation, one in which Jaskier could feel Geralt golden eyes fixed on his back. Then he heard a weak groan, a deep sigh.

"Do you want to talk?" Geralt said.

Jaskier frowned, confused. He wanted to reply that they were talking already.

"What?" he croaked instead.

"About… how do you feel,"

Geralt tone of voice was weak, full of worry. It made Jaskier looked at him over his shoulder. Geralt was still seated across the tub, watching Jaskier with softness, his bulky arms resting on the stone edge. Jaskier knew that was an open stance. He gulped a ball of air and steam. He moved an inch away from the bathtub wall and put his arms in the water, keeping his left arm carefully hidden behind his body. Then he turned around, facing Geralt. His arms in his lap were still difficult to see because of the foam. He breathed in, deep, and looked up. And then he got lost because he couldn't suppress the need to slid his eyes along Geralt broad chest. The medallion was almost touching the water, there, between those dreamy and damned pectorals. Geralt snorted, amused.

“My eyes are up here,” he mumbled, leaning forward a little.

“ _ Uh _ ,” Jaskier blinked.

And he felt his whole body vibrating, writhing, burning in a terrible hell. He opened his mouth to reply but then he saw the cocky smirk Geralt was curving with his also damned and perfect lips he wanted to kiss, and he felt so embarrassed that, without realizing what he was doing, he splashed Geralt in the face. Geralt coughed and barked a laugh, a pristine, sincere, pure laugh, that gave Jaskier years of life. 

The bard felt his chest filled with a warm cloud of cotton and sunlight. It made him think of all the times they had camped together in spring and summer, in open clearings in the forest where they could play at finding stars in the night sky. He remembered some of those nights when Geralt had shown him the constellations and told him the stories that accompanied those stars. He remembered the nights, by the light of the bonfire, when Geralt had read him his bestiary so Jaskier could compose his songs without putting himself in danger. He remembered the afternoons, with the sun not fully set, when they had trained together and Geralt, after beating him every time, had taken care of his little wounds, like the scratches made by the rapier guard, the scrapes from falling to the ground, the cuts that Geralt had made to him without wanting to.

He remembered the soft, tender looks Geralt had given him when he was concentrating with his lute, humming some new song, and Geralt thought he wouldn't notice.

Jaskier felt his eyes stinging, wet with tears.

_ Oh, gods, I would love him even if I didn’t have his mark _

He blinked very quickly, frowning, and plastered a fake smile before Geralt could notice, if he wasn’t noticed yet.

“Alright, I didn’t see that coming,” the witcher said, letting out a joyful sigh.

Jaskier shrugged. Geralt's gesture grew dark a little, just a little, and more with sadness than resentment or harshness.

"But seriously," he said. "If you want to talk... I know we don't usually do it but..."

Jaskier smiled weakly and looked down. If there was one thing he needed and didn’t need at the same time right now it was Geralt fussing about wanting to talk about feelings. 

It was ironic.

“Yes, I know,” Jaskier sough. “I’m sorry, I had been a pain in the ass these weeks,”

“Not at all, if you don't count all the times you tried to punch someone bigger than you when you were drunk,” Geralt curved a tiny smile.

“Oh, shut up,” Jaskier huffed, pretending to be offended, but he smiled too, still looking down. “I know it is an awful way to mourn someone,”

“Indeed,”

“It's just... I hadn't thought about my father for years, not in a close or familiar way, and finding out that he was dead and that... that would probably lead to my mother's death as well..."

“It’s hard,”

Jaskier nodded.

“Yes,” he whispered, feeling vulnerable as if his heart has been ripped off and it was floating in the water, at plain sight. “But it’s not just that, it’s everything else,”

“What do you mean?”

Jaskier paused. His left arm throbbed, beating with a soft  _ bump _ . He knew Geralt had heard his now faster heartbeat because the witcher stiffened against the stone wall of the tub, wary.

“Well, Geralt… I’m the only son of my father,” he said. “That has to mean something, right?”

Then Jaskier looked up and locked eyes with Geralt, who seemed suddenly conscious of that fact as if it was the first time that idea had crossed his mind. Geralt raised his chin a little, frowning.

"Right," 

Then he was the one who looked away first. Jaskier closed and clenched his hands in fists on his thighs and looked away too, turning around again to rest his arms on the edge of the tub. He listened to Geralt splashing around, probably rubbing himself with one of the sponges the servants had left beside them. The water was almost cold after he had been lazing around for so long, but Jaskier didn't care. Soon he heard Geralt standing up, getting out of the bath and drying himself with one of the wool and linen towels. He also heard the new rubbing of the clean clothes against Geralt's body. He heard the belt loops, he heard the boots, like an inverted loop. It was almost torture.

Then a throat-clearing sound rumbled, and he looked up. Geralt was standing in front of him, fully dressed and with a small towel on his shoulders to dry his hair. He was dressed in blue and gold and maybe his clothes weren’t, and wouldn’t be, the most elegant in the castle, but Jaskier knew,  _ because he knew _ , that Geralt had,  _ was _ , trying for him. And that warmed his heart a little. Geralt was extremely gorgeous when he tried.

"Aren't you coming?" Geralt said.

Jaskier grimaced. He couldn't move, he shouldn't move. If he did...

"No, go ahead, I need a little more time," he replied.

Geralt stared at him silently for a couple of seconds, then he exhaled a long breath, almost a grunt, turned on his heels and walked away. And Jaskier gulped, with a thick lump stuck in his throat, and felt his face burning.

Then, finally, the tears rolled down his cheeks.

* * *

When Geralt arrived at the great hall dinner was already served. A high table with four seats arranged, located next to the wall opposite the main gate, was full of food already, and two people were seated at it: the captain of the guard who had received them that morning, and a young woman with long black hair. And then, placed along the rest of the space in the room, there were several tables also long and crowded with the viscount's knights, some guards who were not on duty, probably many of the fortress’s peasants who had already finished their work for the day, and passing travelers who were offered hospitality in the castle.

The atmosphere was warm and lively, with men and women laughing, eating and drinking, making jokes and telling stories, the children running from table to table, with some of the dogs chasing the kids or fighting over some old bone that could still be gnawed on. The servants were going around, serving drinks or more food. A couple of bards, near the central chimney and the main table, were playing their instruments. Geralt stood still at the threshold of the gates, a little overwhelmed by the cloud of noise until Lucjan, in all his grace and dignity, took pity on him and led him to the main table. As he passed, some of the diners elbowed each other and whispered, but if Geralt's heard well, he was sure that those words were not hostile.

"Jaskier hasn't come yet?" Geralt asked.

"I'm afraid not, sir," the butler replied, indicating that his place was the farthest from the central position at the table, which corresponded to the viscount. The captain was seated at the right of that spot, and the woman at its left. Geralt seat was at the black-haired woman's left.

Geralt replied back with a grunt, and sat down at the table, taking a sip from the goblet that was in front of him. He immediately wrinkled his nose and looked at the liquid. He groaned. Wine.

Next to him, the woman giggled.

"You know you can ask for anything you want, right?" she said.

Geralt tilted his head and looked at her. She was beautiful, with her purple eyes, her wavy hair falling over her shoulders, her red, full lips, and her formal black dress. Geralt smelled her curiosity and interest, but he did not look down beyond her chin. He was curious too. Aside from her emotions, there was... The witcher curved an understanding small smile and looked straight ahead.

"A sorceress,"

She smiled back.

"Yennefer of Vengerberg," she replied and took a sip from her own goblet.

"Geralt of Rivia," Geralt raised his cup, drawing the attention of one of the servants, a young woman. The girl was about to pour him more wine, but Geralt clicked his tongue. "No, bring me an ale, the best you have," he said. 

The servant nodded and left to fulfill the request. Geralt let out a tired sigh. Then he offered his cup to Yennefer, who accepted it without objection and poured the content into her goblet.

"I know who you are," she said, in a casual tone. 

“Yes, everyone here seems to know who I am,” he replied, unamused.

Her smile spread a little more, delighted, and returned him his cup.

“I have heard the songs, written and sung by the next Viscount of Lettenhove himself," she continued. "I really expected you to have fangs, or horns, or something,"

Geralt huffed a chuckle.

“I had them filed down,” he mumbled, looking at her, cheeky. 

Yennefer snorted softly, drinking. Geralt looked away again. The servant returned then and filled his goblet with ale from a small barrel, which she left on the table, at the empty end next to Geralt. He appreciated it, so he could pour himself when he wanted to. He drank half of his cup in one gulp. The ale was good, very good. He thanked someone for that.

It was rare to be seated at the head table of a nobleman, without that nobleman being present. As time passed and Geralt drank and ate as he hadn't been able to for weeks, he started to think about where Jaskier would have gone or where he would be. He didn't think anything had happened to him, because in a castle full of servants one never had any privacy, but. He really began to worry when the maids began to remove many of the empty plates and pans and bring in the desserts. Yennefer seemed to share his thoughts because her gesture grew more serious with each passing hour and Jaskier still did not appear. 

"I told him to rest a little before dinner, not to skip it. He needs to do normal life," she muttered behind his goblet.

He looked at her, equally serious. He could smell the concern in her, among resignation and her personal scent of lilacs and gooseberries.

"Do you know where he is?" he asked.

She grimaced, looking back at him. For a moment Yennefer didn't respond, tilting his head, curious again. Geralt saw her frown slowly crease.

“No,” she replied. “But maybe you do,”

“What?”

“You know him better than I do, better than anyone in this room. Not even Captain Fryderyk knows him as well as you do now, not even his mother if she could speak,”

Geralt looked away, uncomfortable, a little nervous.

"I don't think he came out of the fortress, but in his present state... It's dangerous to leave him alone too long," Yennefer said then.

"Have you read his mind?"

"No, not on purpose, I didn't need to. I'm sure you can smell his suffering too,"

Geralt wrinkled his nose a little, clicking his tongue. Yes, he remembered the bitter, sharp smell of anxiety and despair. But he didn't think it was that bad, even with all the drinking and tavern fighting.

"Well, what he usually does when he wants to stop thinking about anything?"

"Drink," he replied quickly, frowning. "Drink as if the world was going to end the next day," he said with a tired grunt. "Fuck,"

Geralt got up.

"You're going to get him," Yennefer said, and he got up too. "I'm going with you,"

Geralt was about to protest. That was something he had been doing on his own for quite some time, he didn't think he needed the help of a stranger. But he smelled, stronger than before, the concern in her, and did not reply. The two of them circled the table and headed for the doors leading to the kitchens, followed by Fryderyk's gaze.

"If we were in a village," Geralt commented as they strode forward, quickly. "Jaskier would be in the tavern sticking his head in a bucket full of ale,"

"I see," she said. "I assume he would also look for ways to get physical pain,"

"He got into fights, how do you know?"

Yennefer pressed his lips together in a thin line.

"Physical pain reduces mental pain, or at least it's easier to assimilate and ease," she explained. "I'm afraid Lady Pankratz is not the only one who is ill in this castle,"

Geralt glanced at the sorceress before peering out of the doorway of the central kitchen. Inside the room, the cooks, helpers, and servants were still working, but with less speed and fervor than when Geralt had been there in the morning. He entered a few steps, followed by Yennefer, who picked the cherry from a cake that was on one of the tables.

"Has anyone seen your young lord?" he asked, raising his voice.

He didn’t even know if the servants knew what aspect Jaskier had. Some of the men and women looked in his direction and a confused buzz of questions and comments rumbled throughout the already noisy kitchen. A maid came up to them with a basket of eggs.

"I think we did see him, a while ago a man with wet hair came and greeted us as if he'd known us all our lives, and then he ransacked the winery and took a couple of bottles,"

"Yes, he was the old viscount's son, his father did that too," An older man added. "He looked like him, the same lost eyes,"

Geralt gritted his teeth.

"Where did he go next?"

"That way," the man pointed to the side door that Geralt had entered hours earlier.

The witcher left without saying anything. Outside it was almost pitch black, despite the burning torches of the fortress. For Geralt that was not a problem. He took a deep breath, trying to catch the scent of Jaskier. It was easier when he had not bathed for days and his natural scent was stronger. With all the soap he had seen, and used, in the baths before, he would have to look for the freshest, cleanest smell in the area. That wasn't a problem either.

But they found him earlier because of the noise.

Near the stables, a lively group of guards was drinking, cackling, and shouting happily. And among their voices, the one that stood out the most was one that Geralt knew very well.

"... and then he said: I'm not talking to you, I'm talking to my horse!"

A burst of laughter erupted as Geralt and Yennefer slowly approached them. When they got close enough, they saw Jaskier sitting in a barrel with a half-empty bottle of wine in his hand. He was wearing his shirt out of his pants and untied down to about half his chest, and Geralt noticed how some of the men were casting suggestive glances at him. A rough, burning feeling ran through his body and almost made him growl. Yennefer put a hand on his arm, and when he looked at her, the sorceress quietly shook her head.

That was when Jaskier saw them.

"Geralt, my friend! Come, let me introduce you!" he exclaimed, taking a sip from the bottle before continuing to speak. The crowd of men cheered, looking at the newcomers as well. Some looked at Yennefer from top to bottom, before they realized what a dangerous look she had. "Boys, this is Geralt of Rivia, the famous and mighty White Wolf whom I have accompanied through countless adventures!" The group applauded again. It was clear they were drunk too. "And you," Jaskier said, tilting his head, looking at Yennefer. He blinked. "I don't remember your name, but you're the sexy witch, right?"

Someone whistled. Yennefer huffed.

Geralt took a step forward.

"I think it's time to go," he said, low, hoarse.

Jaskier wrinkled his nose.

"What? But we're having so much fun, right, guys?!"

The men backed up their words with a new round of laughter and words of encouragement. One of the guards clapped Jaskier's shoulder, as the bard took another sip of wine.

"You've had enough fun," Geralt grunted, gritting his teeth again.

He didn't know why he was getting angrier than when they were in cheap taverns. There shouldn't be anyone there who could do him any real harm. Surely by now the whole castle that the son of the late Viscount had returned home. And yet...

Jaskier pouted, clicked his tongue and stepped off the barrel. He took his last drink from the bottle before leaving it in the hands of one of the guards, without looking away from Geralt.

"I'm sorry, boys, when he makes that face...” Jaskier walked towards Geralt, a little clumsily but without zigzagging. “... I better listen to him, or I'll be sorry later, won't I?"

Geralt raised his chin a little. The bard had stopped a few inches away from him and the witcher could smell the alcohol. Also the pain and his little faded personal scent of dandelions and wood oil. Of all the times he had had to deal with drunk Jaskier, this was the first the bard had been so arrogant. He was not even drunk enough to be unable to walk, or to thrown up, or to fall asleep anywhere he might have found. No. He had picked up a bottle and drank with other people, people he didn't know and didn't know him, and he hadn't even picked a fight as he had done before. Geralt was a little skeptical, as well as upset.

"All right, enough, let's go," Yennefer said, taking Jaskier by the arm and pulling to make him walk. 

Jaskier snorted a small chuckle, and let himself go as the group of men said goodbye to him. Jaskier returned the goodbye with joy. Geralt followed them like a guard dog.

"Wait, wait! I remember your name already!" Jaskier said. "It's Yendoline, isn't it?"

Yennefer sighed long, still leading Jaskier by the arm. They entered the keep through the side door of the kitchen and quickly passed through the hall until they reached the stairs. 

"You almost got it," she answered, sounding a little less tense.

Jaskier giggled.

"I can't believe that after all these years I have to take care of dumb nobles again," Yennefer muttered.

Geralt heard his words and felt a new wave of curiosity. He didn't believe that a viscount needs the guidance and advice of a mage or a sorceress, so Yennefer must have been there for another reason. Then he remembered Jaskier's mother and her illness.  _ Soulrotting _ . Something even magic couldn't quite cure. Geralt sough.

"Well, you don't have to, I'll take care of him next time," Geralt said.

"Oh, yes, I've seen you, feeding his drunken ego," she replied, sarcastically.

"I didn't want to start a fight,"

"You wouldn't have done it, he was looking forward to you taking him away, in your arms if I may add,"

"What?"

"Hey, hey, are you guys talking about me?" Jaskier whistled, laughing. 

Geralt frowned.

"Why do you care so much? You don't know him," he said to Yennefer.

The sorceress helped Jaskier up the last segment of the stairs to the floor of his quarters. The corridor was empty and cold, lonely.

"I have my reasons," she said, sharp.

Geralt wanted to push her further, but they soon reached what must have been Jaskier's room. Yennefer opened the door and let Jaskier go, looking at the witcher.

"Watch him while I go to my room, I'll bring him a remedy so he won't be hungover tomorrow,"

“Sure,”

Yennefer walked down the hallway, leaving them alone. Geralt sighed again, feeling even more tired than before. Even with the time he had spent in that bath, the exhaustion of the journey, both physical and mental, and the tiredness of the day, were taking him. And he hadn't even begun the hunt.

The hunt...

He followed Jaskier into the room, leaving the door ajar. The bard seemed to have calmed down a bit, and now he was muttering unintelligible things as he sat heavily on the bed and lay on his back with his arms outspread. Geralt approached him cautiously and contemplated him silently for a moment.

The grief was there, inexorable, inevitable, eating away Jaskier like a worm, sucking up to his energy like a parasite. Geralt felt helpless, unable to do anything. That sorrow, that pain, was a monster he didn’t know how to fight.

Slowly, he knelt down in front of Jaskier and began to unbuckle his boots to take them off. It was something he had done many times those last two weeks: make sure he didn’t get hurt, no more than Jaskier himself did with the alcohol, taking him to a safe bed, taking off his boots, leaving him lying on the bed, tucking him in with a blanket, making sure he didn't choke on his own vomit. Help him to sleep, sometimes with his witcher's magic. And the next morning, give him breakfast and something for his headache.

Again and again, not knowing how to break the loop.

"You can't break the cycle,"

Geralt looked up and saw Yennefer slowly approaching the bed and the small table that accompanied the headboard. Geralt took off Jaskier's second boot.

"Not at the moment, at least," she added, with a little sadness.

She had left a bottle full of blue liquid on the table and watched the bard gently, almost... almost affectionate. Geralt placed the boots under the bed and pulled Jaskier's legs up to it. The bard whimpered and curled up like a ball on his left side. Geralt opened the chest at the foot of the bed and dug through it, finding a quilt that must have been worth more than Roach and his entire bag of coins put together.

"When will he break it?" he asked.

Yennefer shrugged a little, grimacing.

"I don't know, it depends a lot on the person, whether he's strong or weak, whether he's willing to fight... In his case, the illness has just started to bloom and maybe he can get over it with help,"

"I understand..."

"This is not  _ soulrotting _ , there is always hope that he will recover, but he will need time and patience,"

"Things I don't have,"

Yennefer was silent for a moment, staring at Geralt as the witcher tenderly wrapped Jaskier in the quilt and made him rest his head on the pillows. She also noticed the weak caress he left on the bard's forehead and cheek.

"He'll need you," she whispered.

Geralt stood up, glancing at Yennefer, but then he looked back at the bard.

"When his mother dies, Geralt, he will need you," Yennefer added.

There was something in his voice that made Geralt uncomfortable and nervous. That woman, that sorceress, what the hell was she doing? Why did she care?

"What did he tell you?" he grumbled.

Yennefer paused.

"Enough," she finally said. "Although I didn't need him to tell me anything either, it was sufficient for me to see you together,"

Geralt grunted and looked away from Jaskier, facing the window covered with delicate curtains, through which the moonlight filtered faintly.

"You have no idea," he said. "You've known us for hours, you can't have a damn idea about what's going on,"

"And you? Do you have any idea what's going on with you two?"

Geralt turned around and glared at her, puzzled and somewhat wary. She had a scowl, her lips pressed and her arms crossed. She was irritated, indignant. Why? Geralt tilted his head. They looked at one another silently for long seconds, so long that it seemed as if time had stopped. He tried to smell anything more from her, but it was all resentment and hostility around the sorceress, more even than the lilacs and the gooseberries. And he knew,  _ he was sure _ , that she was trying to read his mind more deeply.

Then she spoke, slowly, with a low, restrained tone of voice that still denoted her wrath.

"I know what it is to think that I don't deserve anyone and yet desire someone with all my strength, but at least you have him, witcher, and you want to waste it,"

Geralt blinked, now more confused than ever, and watched as Yennefer left without saying anything else. She didn't close the door on her way out. Hr blinked again.

"Geralt?"

Jaskier's voice made him forget about the sorceress. He went to the edge of the bed that Jaskier was facing and sat on it. The bard babbled something that Geralt didn't understand so Geralt put one hand on his shoulder, covered by the quilt, and squeezed gently.

"Sleep," he said, with a murmur.

Jaskier licked his lips and sipped through his nose. Geralt smelled his wet cheeks.

"Have I thrown up?" Jaskier asked, without opening his eyes.

Geralt smiled softly and stroked his hair. As he brushed his forehead unintentionally, Jaskier curled up a little more.

"Not a drop this time, I'm proud," Geralt replied.

"Good," Jaskier whispered.

Slowly, little by little, Jaskier fell into a deep sleep. Geralt listened to the rhythmic beat of his heart, still too fast for a human at rest, his breathing sometimes cut off by tiny hiccups. Geralt stroked his hair a little more and then left his hands in his lap, staring at him in silence.

Jaskier was, in human terms, an adult, but for him, he was still too young, and he still thought of him as the boy he had been when they met. Geralt made a grimace that no one would ever see, an unhappy and lost gesture.

"Sorry If I don't have words for you," he whispered. "I know it's what you want, but I think…" he hesitated and took a deep breath. The alcohol was still there, but it was fading already. The buttercups, the oil, the fresh scent of the soap… made him think about the old days. "I guess it's better this way," 

Geralt curved a tiny smile, sweeter but equally painful and turned around on his seat. Then, slowly, rolled up his right sleeve and stared at his inner forearm.

There, on his pale skin, there was a bright stain that occupied almost the entire inside of his forearm as if someone had dropped a lot of paint on it. Most of the pigment was blue, a dark blue that, if Geralt remembered correctly, looked like the blue of the clothing Jaskier had worn at Posada many years ago. Above that blue were smaller and erratic spots, red, yellow and gold, that formed a nebula. And above these, tiny turquoise specks that dotted the rest of the stain. 

It was all remained of his old soulmark after the Trials. 

He remembered the appearance of his soulmark. Maybe not the words itself but the style of the handwriting, the colors. He remembered how the words were shaded, with a beautiful gradient that gleamed with the moonlight. He recalled when he was a child still in training having fantasized about his soulmate before he had known that witchers could not,  _ should not _ , be bonded to anyone and that the Trials would erase his mark for that purpose.

Geralt rolled down his sleeve, hiding the deformed mark, and stood up. He looked back at Jaskier, who was sleeping soundly and clinging to the edges of the quilt. He felt a terribly overwhelming, warm sensation that made his legs tremble and his fingers tingle. He swallowed. And he turned away from the bed. He left the room quietly, and closed the door, slowly, until he heard the click of the deadlock. Then he strode into his own room and lay down on the bed without undressing.

He knew he needed to sleep, but by the time the dawn broke and the sun rose over the horizon, Geralt was still awake. With no energy to face other people that day, he took off his evening clothes, put on his witcher's uniform and his armor, and hung his swords over his shoulder.

By the time the castle began to really wake up, Geralt was already halfway up the mountains.


End file.
